Zero One Arc: Companion Fiction: Roommates
by The Manwell
Summary: Trowa's feelings for his roommate, Yokaze, are changing and he's not sure what to make of it. This story explains Trowa's state of mind during the first 6 chapters of Mission One. (Complete)
1. Chapter 1: Momentary Insanity

**Roommates**

Prequel to _Mission__ One_

A Gundam Wing Fan Fiction

Frivolously Formulated by The Manwell

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**Author's Note:**  This fiction takes place **before** _Mission One_ but might make more sense if it's read **after** _Mission__ One: Chapter 6_.  Yeah, weird, but there it is.  This side-story is rated PG-13 for language, mild violence, adult situations, sexual innuendos, mild homosexuality, and a smattering of angst.  The main characters are Trowa Barton and Yokaze Yuy but Duo and Heero make an appearance, as well as Quatre and the entire NW band (yes, you finally get to meet _all_ of them).  I hope you enjoy!

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**Chapter 1: Momentary Insanity**

**.**

            **The sharp rapport** of tempered steel striking tempered steel stings the ears of everyone present.  The unseasoned spectators are obvious due to their corresponding tension and flinching.  But most members of the audience have already been desensitized to the sound.  Yokaze cannot remember a time when the sounds of battle had stirred a visible reaction from her.

            She stands, arms crossed and gaze focused completely on the combatants.  The two finalists dance over the mat, bodies moving in a rhythm determined by aggression rather than music.  Her attention is singular, intense.  She misses nothing.  Her gaze wanders briefly over the young girl in the white uniform and she fights back a smile.

            It's the final round of the Inter Colony Fencing Championship and, if she's not mistaken, her rag-tag little team of clumsy, orphaned misfits from the L2 colony cluster is going to win.  The smile pulls a little more doggedly at her mouth as she absorbs this fact with an air of resignation and pride.  

            Beside her, a dark-haired boy with freckles grins broadly up at his coach.  Not bothering to whisper, he says, "We're winning, aren't we?"

            She nods.  On the mat, Yokaze's most gifted protégé—a young girl with a bushy ponytail—handles her opponent easily as she attempts to coax him into giving her an opening.

            A second girl standing beside the be-freckled boy warns with a cheeky grin, "Remember your promise, Yokaze."

            The boy smiles broadly, revealing a mouth full of crooked teeth.  "Yeah.  We won't let you back out now."

            Yokaze's jaw tenses as she releases a defeated sigh on her breath.  She _had_ promised them.  God dammit.

            The fencing club had begun as a novelty.  Nearly eight months ago, the intermediate self defense class had trickled into the basement gym of Bloom's Academy for the Arts and had witnessed the end of a heated sword fight between Yokaze and Heero.  Thus the obsession with fencing had begun.  And Yokaze had found herself the reluctant coach of the academy's newest club.

            Her promise to them had been just as spontaneous as their inexplicable interest in sword fighting.  At the time, it had seemed such a sure thing.  At the time, the collection of rough, rowdy, squabbling junior high school students hadn't been able to distinguish the business end of the foil from the pommel much less wield it with any skill.  Yokaze almost shakes her head in wonderment.  _What a difference a little bribery makes..._

            The buzzer sounds.  The final match is over.  The results are in.  Yokaze's students—the underdogs, the unheralded darkhorses—are the victors.

           Pushing her mask off of her face, the girl who'd just won the title pants out, "Now it's your turn, Yokaze."  She grins.  Hugely.  "You've got three weeks to train."

            Yokaze's eyes narrow at her fearless smile.  Three weeks... and then Yokaze will fulfill her promise: she will enter to compete in the Inter Colony Martial Arts Tournament.

            She has a lot of work to do.

**.**

            **Trowa raises a brow** as he hears the shrieks of muffled laughter being picked up by Yokaze's vid phone.  "I take it they are pleased with themselves?"

            Yokaze's mouth finally shifts to reveal the grin she'd been hiding all day.  "They ought to be," she tells him.  "They placed first."

            "Congratulations."

            "You don't look surprised."

            "Should I be?"

            "Aren't you?"

            "And if I'm not?"

            Yokaze reveals a true grin as she falls into the familiar game: phrasing their contributions to the conversation in the form of a question.  "Wouldn't that be a little presumptuous?"

            "Do I seem presumptuous?"

            "Do you really want me to answer that?"

            "Aren't you being a bit pessimistic?"

            "Who died and made you Mr. Happy?"

            Trowa smiles and a soft chuckle escapes him.  "When are you coming home?"

            She grins back.  "Why do you want to know?"

            "Why do you think?"

            "Did you rent out my room?"

            "Would I do that?"

            "Why wouldn't you?"

            "Don't you have any faith in me?"

            "Faith?  What's that?"

            "Don't you have a dictionary in your hotel room?"

            Her brows arc.  "You're suggesting I need one?"

            "Does it sound like I'm suggesting?"

            "Is it impossible for you to give me a straight answer about anything?"

            "Didn't I ask _you_ when you were coming home?"

            "Oh, now this is my fault?"

            "Why don't you answer the question?"

            "And let you win?"

            "What's so horrible about that?"

            "Are you serious?"

            "What do you think?"

            A loud crash interrupts their dialog.  Yokaze glances over her shoulder at the wall, behind which all of the hyperactive adolescents are tellingly silent.  She asks, "Do you think that sounded expensive?"

            Mouth curved into a rueful grin, Trowa replies, "Maybe you should go check?"

            "Why did I think this trip was a good idea?"

            "Momentary insanity?"

            "Is that all?"

            Trowa reaches forward to touch a fingertip to the vid screen.  "I'll see you soon?"

            Expression softening, she tells him, "Maybe you could check what time flight 403 gets in?"

            He shakes his head.  "You're never going to give it up, are you?"

            "Do I have to answer that?"

            And on that note, the screen goes blank.  A small smile still curving his lips, Trowa leans back against the couch and regards the monitor.  Although flat blackness stares back at him, he actually sees the ghost image of her that resides in his memory.  After nearly four years of being roommates, she can still surprise him.

            He glances at the clock and notes the very late hour.  Still, he's not mad that she'd called when she had.  It hadn't been as if she'd woken him up.  His head falls back against the cushions and he closes his eyes.  Whenever she's away he finds it difficult to get to sleep.  Although now that he's spoken with her, that task doesn't seem like such an enormous obstacle anymore.

**.**

            **"Can we... rendezvous... ** Where to?  My place, say 2... and we can do anything we wanna do...  Ye~ah...  Tonight is your night..."

            Frozen in the doorway, Trowa pauses in mid-knock.  Fist raised and mere inches away from the door frame, he watches his roommate attempt to work the fatigue out of her muscles with a series of stretching exercises.  It isn't the exercises themselves that make him pause.  Hell, when he'd been an acrobat with the circus, he'd done a similar set himself following every practice and performance.  Perhaps it's the fact that she's wearing a black sport bra, a pair of black jogging shorts and _nothing else_ which makes the movements seem something other than utilitarian.  Still, it's not as if he's never seen her in this state of undress before.  They are sparring partners and roommates.  They share the same bathroom for God's sake...  So, it's not the clothes, or lack of them, either.  His gaze follows the thin wires of the earphones she's wearing.  Or perhaps it's the song she's breathing out in her husky voice...

            "When you close your eyes... take a minute, take a moment, realize... do you see me when you fantasize?"

            Okay, it's definitely the song.  His throat tightens at the lyrical inquiry.  Trowa shifts on the threshold to the basement gym feeling restless as he feels the blood tingle through the veins and arteries at his wrists.  His gaze continues to flow over her figure, wordlessly—and subconsciously—answering her question.  Feeling not a little bit unsettled, Trowa considers leaving.

            Then, a subtle movement of her body draws his attention.  He looks up, meets her gaze...

            And feels his body flush as she breathlessly promises, "Tonight'll be your night."

            The mask that covers his suddenly dry mouth, tight throat, and tingling skin is firmly in place.  He watches as she dials down the volume on the portable music player clipped to her shorts.

            "What's up?" she asks and the sound of her voice makes him cross his arms over his chest.

            "Dinner's ready," he tells her, voice bland.

            She glances at the clock.  "No shit?"

            His mouth twitches into a small grin.  "Not tonight."

            Yokaze pauses then grins as she realizes he took her words literally.  "Yes, well, there's always tomorrow."

            "It'll be your turn," he confirms.

            "Lucky you," she replies, climbing to her feet.

            _Lucky me..._ he muses silently, still unable to look away from her for more than a moment at a time.

            "You're looking a little tense, Tro.  Shitty day?"

            "Why do you ask?"

            She groans.  "We're not starting this again, are we?"

            "Starting what?"

            She levels a glare on him.  "Do I have time to take a shower?"

            He doesn't reply.  He's too busy reminding himself that she's taken a shower hundreds of times in their shared bathroom while he'd been in the apartment.  He reminds himself that this time should be no different.

            But, somehow, it is.

            She shrugs.  "Okay.  Shower later.  But you'd better sit up wind.  I reek."

            "How long have you been down here?"

            She consults the clock again.  "Since after the gymnastics class this morning, I think..."

            His gaze remains on her as she pulls on her socks and shoes.  "You're taking this challenge very seriously."

            Yokaze frowns.  "Well, I promised, didn't I?"

            "You don't sound so sure."

            She simply shrugs, slinging her sweat towel over her shoulder.

            "Yokaze?"

            With a sigh, she replies flatly and succinctly, "I don't belong in that tournament.  It was a rash promise I shouldn't have made."

            "Why not?"

            "Because I'll win because I've been trained to win.  Everyone else who enters that ring is there because they bled and ached and strived to get there.  I never made that choice."

            Eyes narrowed, Trowa tells her, "You made the same choice they did.  You signed up for the competition.  You'll do the same work they'll do when you're fighting for the title.  That's all that matters."

            She stares at him for a moment before his words skin in, relaxing her.  She nods once, expression soft.  "Thank you."

            A bit of the tension eeks out of his shoulders.  "You're welcome."

            For a long moment, neither moves.  They simply stare at each other in the empty room.  Trowa watches as a question shimmers to life in her eyes.  Again, his body reacts by withdrawing further from the strange sensations evoked within it.  Arms still crossed over his chest, he observes his roommate's expression as Yokaze takes a deep breath and says, "So what's for dinner?"

            He nearly smiles in reply.  The questions are still there, unasked.  But he relaxes, knowing that she won't ask him about this sudden tension between them... at least not yet.

**.**

**~End of Chapter 1~**

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**Author's Note:** The song in this chapter is "Rendezvous" by Craig David.  A seriously sweet melodic R&B tune.


	2. Chapter 2: Making Progress

**Author's Note:**  Much thanks, Shadowgoddess...  I can't believe there was such a stupid typo...  Wow, do I feel like a schmuck right now.  At least I didn't mess up Duo's "Lecture."  Man, I love that part...  And, Seak, I think I'll just let you deal with those hot flashes on your own if you don't mind? ;)

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**Roommates**

**Chapter 2: Making Progress**

**.**

            **"Woah!"******

            "Yeah!"

            "Look out!"

            "Right hook!"

            "C'mon, Yo!"

            Arms crossed, the silent figure behind the row of jostling kids calmly regards the action in the center of the arena.  Two fighters deftly maneuver around each other in the ring, looking for an opening.  It's the final round of the L2 Inter Colony Martial Arts Tournament Mid-Weight Division.  And the roar of the crowd is deafening.  He doesn't have to consult his seatmate to know that Heero is as tense as he is.  The other spectators which comprise Yokaze's "cheering section," however, are not nearly so concerned about her welfare.

            Two seats down, a young man in a black T-shirt leans forward to better see his chosen champion's strategy.  With a wide grin and expressive gestures, he explains Yokaze's maneuvers to anyone within shouting distance.

            "You see that?  That's a classic move.  Classic."

            The academy's fencing club members listen with half an ear to Duo's running commentary.

            "Ooh!  That was risky.  Brilliant but risky.  Did you see the way she drew him in like that?  Took the hit?"

            Heero's glower grows—impossibly—darker as Duo's words only confirm the fact that his sister is playing a very dangerous game with her opponent.

            "That could have gone so very wrong," Duo continues, oblivious to Heero's increasing tension.  "If she hadn't been 100% in control of that move, he could have messed her up real bad..."

              In perfect silence, Trowa wishes Duo would just shut the hell up.  He's well aware of the risks Yokaze is taking to win.  Just as Heero is.  Just as Yokaze is.  And it's driving the two who are forced to sit back and watch absolutely insane.

            "Would have bruised a kidney and the _very_ least...  _Damn!_  That guy is _fast!_  Watch out for the jab, Yo!"

            Trowa tenses as she does, indeed, watch out for the jab Duo had anticipated.  She watches for it, and takes it.  Heero's hands tighten around the armrest, stressing the metal, as Yokaze goes down.

             Tumbling, she kicks the legs out from under her opponent.  Trowa feels the death grip around his heart loosen as he realizes it had been a controlled fall.  Heart pounding in his chest, he watches her pounce.  She moves so quickly that no one sees the hold forming until she's got the man in her arms, pressing against several pressure points at once. 

            Her opponent struggles to retain consciousness.  The referee commences with the count.  He flexes his muscles, trying to weaken Yokaze's hold.  He attempts to bring his limbs underneath him, to push them over, to slam her against the mat, to turn the maneuver against her.

            The referee continues counting.  The crowd is on their feet.  Trowa and Heero stand as well, looking out over the jostling sea of humanity to the one person they would do anything to protect.  Beneath her, the fighter thrashes.  Signs of strain and fatigue are obvious on her face, in her shaking limbs.  But she holds on.

            The three former pilots are very aware of the effort it requires to subdue someone in the manner Yokaze has chosen.  They are also very aware that she is two small moves away from snapping the man's neck.  If either of them had ever entertained any doubt that Yokaze's training hadn't been as complete—or even more so—than their own, this fight would have unequivocally convinced them of her competence.  They had watched as, during each of the previous rounds she had foregone the kill shot and settled instead for coaxing her prey into a position which would allow her to subjugate them using non-lethal means.  It is exhausting work.  And the three of them are exhausted just from watching her.

            The auditorium throbs with the cheers of the throng as the referee approaches the end of the count.  Yokaze's opponent still hasn't given up.  He gathers his impressive strength for one last attempt at dislodging her grip.  He somehow manages to get a hold on her hand and bends it awkwardly backward.  The crowd goes crazy as Yokaze tumbles off of the guy, helpless to resist the momentum that forces her away.

            The referee backs off.

            Yokaze doesn't.  As she lands on her back, she manages to twist her opponent's grip so that now _she_ has hold of _him._  In the instant it takes for him to comprehend the sudden reversal, she sweeps her leg around, sending her heel into his stomach and forcing the breath from him.  In a swift, aikido move, she bends the gasping man's arm behind him and applies threatening pressure to his bent wrist.

            He slaps the mat in defeat.

**.**

            **"Oh my _God,_** Yo, that was _awesome!"_

            "I'm glad you enjoyed it, Duo."

            He laughs.  _"Enjoyed?_  Now that's an understatement."

            She arcs a sweaty brow at him.  "You're a bit bloodthirsty, aren't you?"

            His answering grin is rather sharp and _very_ predatory.  The other fighters sharing the locker room take a few steps away from the young man congratulating Yokaze.  "Man, Yo, I couldn't _believe_ you took that jab at the end.  And that left hook to the side.  A guy that size, with that much skill... he could have sent you to the hospital with that maneuver...  And the way you just _stepped into it _was..."

            A slight movement to Duo's left has him glancing in Heero's direction.  In the fraction of a second it takes for Duo to read his friend's very tense, very volatile body language, his words slow.

            "... incredibly irresponsible, Yokaze," Duo continues, inflection changing from raging enthusiasm and praise to chastisement.  "You could have really hurt yourself all for a stupid championship.  What the hell were you thinking with a move like that?  I can't _believe_ you'd do something so stupid it absolutely _defies_ description!  You'll be lucky if the three of us don't kick your ass for that!"

            Yokaze, under the pretense of wiping the sweat off of her face with a fluffy towel, snickers at Duo's tirade.  He accomplishes his goal, though.  Heero's deadly, blue glare is now completely focused on Yokaze and _not_ on Duo.

            Crossing his arms, Duo demands, "What do you have to say for yourself, hm?"

            Expression now somber, she lowers the towel and looks from Duo to Heero to Trowa, all three of which are glaring at her with their arms crossed over their chests as if to stop themselves from wringing her neck in screaming frustration, and says flatly, "Bring it on."

**.**

            **Trowa looks up** from his laptop as a small bottle of scented massage oil clatters across his lap.  He pulls his hands away from the keyboard, retrieves the intruding item, and looks up at Yokaze.  She's still damp from her shower and wearing another pair of jogging shorts and a tank top.

            She smiles shyly at him.  "I'll be your bestest friend for life," she offers in exchange for a massage.

            Trowa grins back and sets his laptop aside.  It's enough of an answer for Yokaze and she plops herself down between his knees on the edge of the couch.  It's not a completely unfamiliar routine, but Trowa tenses nonetheless.  He stares at the nape of her neck, feels the humid heat rolling off of her skin, smells the essence of her shampoo in the space between them...  The very _meager_ space between them.  His mind seems stuck on the fact that she's sitting in front of him, that her hips are framed by his thighs, that she's asking him to touch her...

            "Where do you want it?" he asks and the suggestive meaning hits him a split second too late.  He closes his eyes and counts to ten.

            "Arms first," she requests.

            With a final, fortifying Yokaze-scented breath, he opens the cap on the bottle.  "Sure."

            He starts with her left forearm, wrapping his arms around her in order to get his fingers in the position necessary to relax the tight muscles.  Her sore body sways with exhaustion but she manages to sit up straight.  Noticing this, Trowa resigns himself to enduring even more of the unsettling sensations that have been asserting themselves lately in response to his roommate.

            "Lean back against me," he tells her shortly.

            "I'm fine," she says quietly, enjoying the sensation of her left arm being slowly reduced to a limp mass of tissue.

            "You're exhausted," he corrects.

            "And you're not?" she inquires but she accepts his invitation and leans back into his chest anyway.

            Trowa glances at her, noting her closed eyes and parted lips.  "I wasn't the one fighting today," he tells her.

            The lips curve.  "No, you weren't.  You just had to watch."

            He studies her, wondering how she would know what it's like to be watching while a friend is...  He stops in mid-thought as the answer comes to him.  Of course she would know what it's like.  Watching from the outside had been her role for an entire year during the first war.

            Trowa continues to work the tension out of her arm, his silence confirming her statement.  The scent of cedarwood permeates the air around them.  Back pressed to chest, they begin to subconsciously synchronize their breaths.  The quiet familiarity of the moment relaxes both of them and when Trowa finishes with her left arm, he doesn't mind that it ends up draped over his thigh as he moves on to the right.  Long minutes pass as he gently coaxes the tightly coiled muscles to release their tension.  Neither of them speak.  They simply breathe... and feel.

            "Next?" Trowa breathes against her ear.

            "Mmm," she says, reluctantly leaning forward to brace her elbows on her knees.  As she does this, she pulls her shirt over her head, leaving it bunched around her chest and biceps.  Trowa gazes at the expanse of her back... her bare back.  His throat tightens and that strange tingling in his wrists asserts itself once again as he comprehends the fact that she'd been wearing nothing beneath that small, tight shirt.

            He coats his hands with the massage oil again and starts at her shoulders, working his way towards her neck.  She is completely submissive in his hands, trusting him without reservation.  His fingers wrap slowly around her neck and he knows, so easily he could...  It wouldn't take much at all to snap the third vertebrae.  She'd never be able to put up a fight.  That level of trust awes him, humbles him.  Her open display of vulnerability forces a twisting ache to blossom in his chest.

            Her body rocks slowly beneath his hands.  The slow, deep, soothing rhythm of the massage is the only movement in the entire apartment.  Trowa's breathing slows even more during these languid moments.  As he nears the small of her back, he finds himself running out of room to work easily.  Without thought, he adjusts his body, opening his legs even wider in order to reach her lower back.

            And then, having covered her entire back, he moves upward again.  Once his hands have settled on her shoulders once more, she tugs her shirt back into place and reclines back against his chest again.

            "Your hands getting sore yet?" she asks, barely enunciating.

            He shakes his head.  "No."

            "A little more?" she asks.

            "Where?"

            With a heavy sigh, she lifts herself over his leg and stretches out on the couch with her head pillowed against the armrest.  She settles the nearest foot on his lap in silent request.  Without a word, Trowa pours a bit more oil into his palm and begins with her sole.  Her eyes are closed but he knows she's still awake.  He continues upward over her ankle, her shin and calf, her knee, he's halfway up her thigh when he wonders if she wants him to continue.

            "Yokaze?"

            "Higher."

            His fingertips are at the edge of her shorts when she shifts slightly.  "Hip?" she inquires.

            One hand cradling her inner thigh, the other slowly rubs further underneath the fabric.  She sighs as Trowa forces the tension away.  He takes in the sight of his hands on her, the feel of her skin beneath his fingers.  If he weren't already completely relaxed, Trowa suspects he would have felt _that way_ again.  But he doesn't.  He watches his left hand move beneath the fabric of her shorts and feels perfectly at peace in this moment with her.

           A slight movement from her signals him to switch to her opposite leg.  Again, he starts at her foot and moves upward.  This time, when he reaches her hip, he manages to make an observation he should have noticed earlier.  Much earlier.

            Yokaze doesn't seem to be wearing anything under this particular garment, either.

            His hands falter.  He becomes hyper sensitive of the way he's cradling her thigh, of the soft, stretchy cotton sliding over the back of his other hand.  Oddly enough, Yokaze doesn't seem to notice his hesitation.  He studies her slack lips, observes her slow, even, shallow breaths.

            She's asleep.

            For a moment, he simply stares at her.  And then he leans forward to carefully arrange her body along the couch.  He gathers a pillow and a blanket from her room and attempts to make her as comfortable as possible.  Then, after he's finished, he gathers up the bottle of oil and his laptop, preparing to get ready for bed himself, and hesitates.

            His gaze roves slowly over her, his friend, his roommate.  Face carefully expressionless, he wonders at his odd reactions to her lately.  In the past four years they had been there for each other, had offered—without question or reservation—whatever assistance the other had needed.  They'd tended each other's sprains and bruises and fevers.  They'd cooked dinner together and had water fights over a sink full of dishes.  They'd used each other's shampoo when one of them had forgotten to buy more during the last trip to the grocery store.  They'd rubbed shoulders and leaned on each other when watching movies in the evening.  They'd even wrestled in mock hand-to-hand combat over who would make the popcorn.

            Trowa can list a thousand ways in which Yokaze has shown her trust for him.  He can list another thousand ways in which he's shown his trust for her.  So why now, after a simple, medicinal massage, did their friendship seem so much... deeper?

**.**

**~End of Chapter 2~**


	3. Chapter 3: Competition

**Roommates**

**Chapter 3: Competition**

**.**

            **"Are you ready** for this?"

            Trowa looks down from stowing his overnight bag in the shuttle compartment and inquires of Yokaze, "L4?"

            A strange look glimmers in her eyes.  "Yeah," she says slowly, as if she'd been expecting him to say something else.  "Or should I ask if L4 is ready for you?"

            He quirks a brow at her.  Gazing at her for a moment, he wonders at her odd mood this morning.  "I'm not the one with a multitude of screaming fans," he reminds her.

            The expression on her face is one of disbelief.  "Only for lack of publicity," she assures him.

            "The real question," he continues, disregarding her wry comment, "is if L4 is ready for NW?"

            "Quatre did look a little... anxious," she concedes.  "It was his idea to do this charity concert, after all..."

            Trowa settles himself into his seat.  With a neutral expression as he examines the selection of movies provided for in-flight entertainment, Trowa asks, "Are you looking forward to seeing them again?"

            "Sure," she says easily.  "Just as long as Jarret doesn't make his famous coffee and Luke takes the batteries out of his cell phone and Ian stops wearing Aqua Velva and Mark decides to stop referring to himself in the third person and Sam manages to pull on a clean shirt every week or so..."      

            "Hm," he replies, absorbing that massive declaration with a hidden smile.  "And what do you say to them about me?"

            She looks speculative.  "Well, you do have this strange fascination with my socks..."

            "Look who's talking."

            "Ah, but I have poor circulation.  What's your excuse?"

            "I'm a sick individual?"

            Her mouth curves at one corner.  "It's always the quiet ones."

            Trowa's gaze meets hers in response and the shared humor passes between them.  When she turns away to stuff the complimentary pillow and blanket under the seat in front of her, Trowa continues to study her, his mind circling around the imminent reunion.  He leans back in his seat and wonders why the presence of the other band members is weighing so heavily on his mind.  She'd worked with all of them before, performed concerts with them before, toured with them before...

            But like so many seemingly familiar and recent aspect of his life this feels different as well.  He can't help but wonder if, for the next few days, he's going to be seeing much of the woman he's gotten to know.  He's never seen her around all five band members before.  He tells himself he's curious how she'll act in their presence, but he knows that's not entirely what he's feeling.

            He sighs out his breath and closes his eyes.  Even if Yokaze is too busy to hang out with him this week, at least he'll be able to take the opportunity to visit with Quatre...

            Somehow, that doesn't reassure him the way it ought to.

**.**

            **Trowa gazes** at his room.  The room next to Quatre's.  The room he'll be occupying _alone._  He ignores the odd feeling of the large, empty space and offers his old friend a nod.  "Thank you, Quatre, for your trouble."

            Quatre grins.  "It's really not a problem, Trowa.  I've actually been really looking forward to this week.  It'll be great being able to spend time with you again."

            "I've missed that, as well," he assures him.

            "Well... it's rather late.  I'll let you get some rest.  Would you care to join me for breakfast in the morning?"

            "Of course."

            With a brilliant smile, Quatre departs.  "See you then."

            As Trowa's only distraction disappears into the hall, he feels the room's silence begin to encroach.  He finds it odd that he is so aware of the lack of sound and humanity.  He's never really noticed it before except when his life had depended on it.

            He places his bag beside the bed and begins to set the alarm on his wrist watch.  Even before he's finished punching in the desired time muffled noises intrude on the heavy silence.  He glances up at the ceiling... the ceiling which happens to be Jarret's floor.  There are thumps of heavy footsteps, the throb of music, peals of laughter, and a feminine shriek.  Trowa nearly frowns at the apartment above, imagining the party taking place between Yokaze and her friends.

**.**

            **"Put me down _now,_** you perv!"

            Luke grins and spins around, Mark draped over one of his broad shoulders like the metaphorical damsel in distress.  "Party's waiting, Marky.  Let's get a move on."

            "No!"  Mark grabs frantically at the doorway.  He grasps the molding in white-knuckled desperation, causing Luke to pull up short.

            Not bothering to hide his broad grin of amusement, Luke attempts to reassure him.  "That look is actually very flattering on you.  Don't you want to show it off?"

            "Do I _look_ like I want to show it off?"

            "We~ell, since the only view I've got of you at the moment is your pathetically skinny ass, I can't really answer that question, Mark.  But, if I had to, I'd say said skinny ass is eager to get down with its bad self."

            "What are doing looking at my ass, Luke?"

            "Traumatizing myself for life?"

            From behind him, Mark growls dangerously.

            "Somebody want to give me a hand with no-butt-boy, here?"

            Mark's hands curl even tighter around the molding.  "You will live to regret this, asshole."

            "What's the problem, guys?" Ian's deep, calm voice interrupts.

            "Luke," Mark says quickly.

            "Mark," Luke says at the same moment.

            Ian looks unimpressed.  

            Luke elaborates.  "I gave Marky here a make-over."

            "Gave?  _Gave?_  Hah!" he mocks.  "More like tied me to the chair and had your way with me!"

            Luke gives Ian a very put-upon expression.  "Oh, Mark...  If I'd 'had my way with you,' you wouldn't be capable of speech yet."

            Ian smiles.

            Mark grinds his teeth together and gets the argument back on track.  "Put me down so I wash this shit off my face," he insists.

            Luke mocks a crushed look for Ian's benefit.  "And destroy my masterpiece?  Honestly, Mark, it's just a little mascara."

            "And eye-liner and eye shadow and lipstick and—"

            Ian sighs.  This could go all night.  "Luke, put Mark down.  Mark, turn around and let me see what Luke's done to you."

            As Mark's bare feet touch the floor, he grouses, "Oh, _ri~__ight__._  And watch you laugh in my face?"

            Luke stops looking martyred and starts looking rather pissy.  "For the love of aphrodisiacs, no one will laugh at you."

            Ian declines to comment.  Luke's love of practical jokes has ruined his credibility with Mark, who happens to be the unfortunate recipient of most of the aforementioned pranks.  The fact that Luke actually knows a thing or two about cosmetics is not enough to counterbalance Mark's innate distrust of him.  Ian tells Luke, "Go away."

            "Why?"

            "Because I'm going to give Mark my honest opinion.  Go away."

            Luke, with a reluctant glance at the tailored, black, satiny dress shirt stretched taut over Mark's stiff shoulders, departs.  After a moment, the two guitarists hear: "Yokaze, baby!  You are lookin' so _fi~ine__!_  Jarret, my man, tell me I'm bunkin' with this luscious woman tonight."

            Mark's shoulders slump forward as he lets out a long, anxiety-laden breath.  "He never quits."

            Ian quietly agrees.  "No, he doesn't.  That would be why you're still hung up on him, no doubt."

            There is a short, deft pause before Mark says softly, "No doubt."

            "Well," Ian says.  "Let's see it."

            Reluctantly, Mark turns around.

            Ian blinks.

            Mark fidgets with a belt loop on his body-hugging gray slacks.  "That bad, huh?"

            "Have you... looked in a mirror, Mark?  _Really _looked in a mirror?"

            "Uhm... no?"

            Wordlessly, Ian marches his best friend over to the vanity and poses him before the reflective glass.  After a long moment, Mark says, "Oh, _Christ..._"

            Ian agrees.  Mark's make-over is not another joke.  Not even remotely.

            As Mark stares at his exotically handsome image, his hands slowly curl into fists.  "Ian?"

            "Yeah?"

            Pause.  Deep breath.  Inhale.  Exhale.  "Why?"

            Ian understands his friend's abbreviated attempt at clarification.  For the past four years, Mark and Luke have been playing this game: Luke, the charming womanizer, pranks Mark, the cynical intellectual, to the point where Mark is about ready to pass the point of hating him, until he is on the verge of adopting complete indifference toward him, and then he does something like this.  Something that, from anyone else, would be considered a kindness.

            Ian replies honestly, "Because you let him."

            "I hate him," Mark promises flatly.

            But both of them know he's lying.

**.**

            **"You look..."**

           Trowa pauses in the hall, listening to Quatre's voice trail off as he considers his next words.  For a very brief moment, Trowa is completely still.  He waits, breath stilled, for a clue to the identity of Quatre's guest this morning.  He waits and he hopes...

            "Completely knackered?  Absolutely wasted?  Absurdly hung-over?   Totally frazzled?"

            Trowa senses Quatre's attempt to contain his smile.  "Uhm... exhausted," he finished diplomatically.  "That must have been some reunion."

            "You mean you didn't hear us?"  Yokaze sounds almost incredulous.

            "Ah... well..."

            She chuckles.  "Oh, Quatre, you're too polite for words," she says after realizing that Quatre had, of course, been kept awake by the noise well into the night.  "It won't happen again," she promises him.

            "Honestly, don't worry about it, Yokaze.  You've done so much for me already—rearranging your touring schedule to do me this favor...  It couldn't have been easy convincing your recording label that this charity concert was a good idea and—"

            Yokaze sighs.  "No worries, Quatre.  I'm here.  Everything's cool.  It's all good."  Thoughtful pause.  "Except for those tequila shots."  Her voice becomes muffled and Trowa envisions her burying her face in her arms on the table.  "I'm gonna _kill_ Luke.  The horny bastard."

            Trowa imagines Quatre's replying look of shock and curiosity.  "Er..." Quatre says, casting about for something to say in response to that.

            "At least he passed out before he could loose his shorts."  She snorts at what must be Quatre's startled expression.  "Strip poker," Yokaze supplies helpfully.

            "Oh."  From the sound of his voice, Trowa can tell he's both amused and apprehensive.

            Yokaze continues, "Do _not_ play cards with Mark unless you want to loose."  She shakes her head.  "The guy has a degree in philosophy.  Where the hell he learned to be such a cardshark I don't know."  After a moment, she amends, "I don't _want_ to know."

            Trowa hears Quatre take a sip of his morning beverage before offering, "Probably the same place I learned how to tie a cherry stem in a knot with my tongue."

            Yokaze's sputter of laughter turns into a groan of defeat.  "Oh, it's not humane what you do to me, Quatre."

            Trowa discovers himself in the doorway without having made a conscious decision to actually move.  He observes Quatre's feral smile directed at Yokaze, observes her replying grin.

            In a gentle voice, she informs him, "You sick, sadistic man."

            "It's always the innocent-looking ones."

            Fingers curled tightly around the doorframe, Trowa contributes flatly, "Yes, it is."

           Quatre blinks at the interruption.  Seeing the dark look in Trowa's eyes, his welcoming smile falters.  "Good morning, Trowa.  Did you sleep well?"

            The question is completely unnecessary.  The shadows beneath his eyes and the pallor of his skin are evidence enough of his lack of quality rest.  He says, "Yes."

            He can feel Quatre and Yokaze exchanging a look behind his back.  Trowa pours himself a cup of coffee and tries to force his bad mood from his body language.  His instincts battle to re-install his air of calm indifference.  Trowa is not sure exactly what it is about Yokaze and Quatre's conversation that has gotten under his skin.  All he knows is that he can't let his agitation show.

            "Well, it's been great visiting with you, Yo, but I've got to run."

            "Thanks for trying to feed me, Quatre."

            Quatre laughs.  "Yes, well, at least I got some water and a few painkillers in you."  He stands from the table and approaches Trowa.  Unable to stop himself, Trowa tenses.  "Come by the office today and we'll have lunch," Quatre invites.

            Trowa nods.

            "Great.  I'll see you then.  Bye, Yokaze."

            "Later, Q."

            Even after the apartment door has closed, Trowa doesn't turn around.  Instead, he stares at his cup of coffee trying to prolong his time alone.  Trying to rebuild his mask.  He reaches for a plate and places upon it an apple Danish, an English muffin, and a slice of lemon and poppyseed bread.  Feeling more composed now, he turns back to the table.

            He doesn't meet Yokaze's gaze as he sets the plate down in front of her and takes the seat between hers and Quatre's vacated chair.  He glances in her direction as she wrinkles her nose at the plate in front of her.

            "Thanks, Tro, but no thanks," she tells him, scooting the plate in his direction.

            Exhaling over the rim of his mug, Trowa tells her, "I didn't ask if you wanted it."

            The exhaustion leaves her face and she sends a sharp look in his direction.  "And I didn't ask you to get it for me.  Your plate.  Your breakfast."

            His jaw muscles tense.  "You're going to regret not eating."

            "My roommate, the psychic."

            Around the mug, his grasp tightens dangerously.  The sarcasm in her voice provokes that unsettled sensation beneath his skin again.  A tension headache begins to throb behind his eyes.  He doesn't quite know what to say to her after that jibe, so he says nothing.  He turns away from her and wanders to the window, his scalding cup of coffee for company.

            He can feel her gaze on his back for a long moment.  As he stands there, he wonders what his problem is.  Yokaze hadn't done anything.  Neither had Quatre.  And yet, something about their interaction has disturbed him.

            Trowa forces himself to breathe deeply and evenly.  He's never felt like this before.  He's never been this... out of control.

            Reluctantly, he attempts to put a few words together, aware that saying nothing can be worse than saying the wrong thing.  The clock on the wall counts off the seconds.  Trowa's shoulders gradually relax as he settles on a simple apology.

            "I..."  His voice sounds rusty, so he tries again.  "I'm sorry."

            He waits for a reply, a response, anything.

            He receives nothing.

            With a puzzled frown, he turns around and discovers her empty chair.

            She's gone.

            His eyes close.

            He has to get out.  Go out.  Figure out what in the hell is wrong with him.  Their friendship likely depends on it.

            Trowa strides to the table and sets his untouched mug down.  He starts for the door but suddenly pulls up short when he notices something else missing from the table.

            The English muffin.

**.**

**~End of Chapter 3~**


	4. Chapter 4: Wallflower

**Roommates**

**Chapter 4: Wallflower**

**.**

            **He doesn't meet** Quatre for lunch.  He's neither hungry nor is he ready to discuss his odd behavior.  And he is sure Quatre will ask.  So he calls his friend's secretary and leaves a message: _Must cancel lunch.  Errands._  It's a lie, and an obvious one at that, but he has far too much on his mind to be concerned with tact.

            Trowa strides along the street, seeking movement and distraction.  He needs to think, but he doesn't particularly want to.  He needs to sort through his emotions, but he hesitates to even acknowledge their existence.

            How did his life become such a mess?  Things had been so much easier when it had been just him and Yokaze sharing an apartment, teaching the classes at the academy, volunteering at the local public schools.  He remembers coming home to see her researching some new cause on her laptop or plodding her way through a new song concept for the band.  He'd helped with the research.  He'd listened to the music.  And she'd seemed so content to share them with him.  In those moments, he'd forgotten that there was a colony full of people around them.  In those moments, the two of them had existed in their own universe.  But, more and more, lately that universe is shrinking to encompass only Trowa.

            Once, before he'd joined the circus, before he'd befriended his fellow pilots and sworn to protect his coworkers, this sensation had been the norm.  But he's felt what it's like to be included in someone else's world, what it's like to invite them into his own.

            He doesn't want to go back to that cold solitude.  Not anymore.

            His thoughts begin to loop back again in a seemingly endless cycle when the one thing that has the power to completely distract him assails his senses.

            Yokaze's voice.

            _"Do I act like... I trust you?"_

            Trowa pauses on the sidewalk outside a small music shop as the strains of one of NW's lesser known songs drifts out to him.

            _"Do I stare like… I love you?"_

            Her husky voice pulls him into the alcove created by the open door and faded awning.  He doesn't try to resist.

            _"Can you feel my... skin against yours?"_

            His lips part and echo the lyrics unconsciously.

            _"No?"_

            A heartbeat of silence follows.  And then Yokaze's voice, low and aching: _"I didn't think so..."_

            It's been a long time since he's heard this song.  In fact, he can remember the time she'd sang it for him.  Well, she hadn't been singing _to_ him.  Not really.  He'd been in the studio with George when she'd offered to share her newest tune with them.  He almost smiles at the way the mere sound of her voice over an old audio system has brought that afternoon back to him.  His eyes drift half closed as he remembers the bulky headphones over her short, messy hair, recalls the way she'd leaned into the mic and breathed out the words, returns to the moment she'd looked up at him and the feel of their gazes connecting had been... electric.

            _"Do I seem like... I need you?"_

            A shiver tumbles just beneath his skin.  That phrase.  It had been that phrase when she'd looked up at him.  When he'd held her complete and undivided attention.

            _"Do I sound like... I'll listen to you?"_

            And she'd always given that to him when he'd had something to say or to share, he realizes; that perfect focus of hers had zeroed in on him without fail.  Trowa feels a sigh push past his lips.  It feels like it's been forever since the last time she'd looked at him like that.  His chest aches with the desire to have that back again.

            _"Can you tell me... you want me?"_

            Trowa's entire body seems to pause at that breathy question.  His eyes open.  The phrase loops back around, replaying in his mind.

            _"No?"_

            He swallows as that single syllable, filled with such aching regret, shudders in the air.

            _"I didn't think so..."_

            He stares into the small store not seeing the rows of shelves displaying hundreds of compact discs.  Trowa is too busy unfolding a shocking realization.  He'd always assumed this song had been about anger, about upholding one's defenses, about the end of a passionate relationship, about confronting a long-time lover about their cold indifference.

            But that's not it at all.

            It's a list of clues.  Yokaze sings of unrequited love.  She attempts to show how she feels but encounters an unresponsive companion.  She asks him if he notices it when she brushes against him.  She asks if he has realized he wants her.  She sings about loving someone who is either unwilling or unable to return that affection.

            And she'd looked directly at him the first time she'd whispered those lyrics to an audience.

            He'd been her audience.

            Trowa sways slightly on his feet.  He reaches out and braces one palm against the doorjamb.  She _had_ been singing to him.  This song... it's about... it's for... for _him?_  No.  No, it can't be.  She doesn't...  She wouldn't... _feel_ this for her friend, her roommate, her coworker... would she?

            _How long?_ he wonders, his body thrumming with energy.  He feels on edge and numb at the same time.  _She wrote this song over a year ago._  His eyes squeeze shut for a moment as he imagines her waiting for him to see it.  Waiting for him to open his eyes and notice her the way she wants him to.

            His fingers tighten around the frame as he realizes that, over the course of a year, a lot can change.  Including her feelings for him.

            He's not sure what to do about this.  If he _can_ do anything about this.  _If_ she'd felt this way about him then, it's no guarantee she'll still feel the same _now._

            Trowa needs time but he doesn't have it.  Tomorrow night is the charity concert.  The next morning she'll be flying to Earth for a ten-month tour...

            "Can I help you?"

            He starts at the intrusion of another's voice.  He glances up at the bored-looking teen minding the music store.  A corner of his mouth pulls into an abashed half-grin.  "No.  Thank you," Trowa says as he pushes himself out onto the sidewalk again.  "I seem to have answered my own question."

            And with that he turns in the direction of the concert hall.  NW should be taking a break for lunch soon and he needs to have a few words with the lead singer.

**.**

            **"Okay, guys.**  Thirty minutes for lunch," Yokaze announces.

            "Thank ever-loving _God..._" Luke moans, climbing off of his seat behind the drum set and beating a path to the break room.

            Jarret switches off his keyboard and comments, "You'd think is ass was on fire."

            "Hemorrhoids will do that," Mark says.

            Sam snorts.  "That's the voice of experience."

            "Excuse me?"

            Shaking his head, Sam elaborates, "You're the one with the stick up your ass, man.  The rest of us keep trying to yank it out but you just clench on for dear life.  Don't tell me that don't chafe like a bitch."

            "Chafe?  Keep talking, Pig Pen," Mark threatens, "and we'll see if you'll be able to find any drawers to wear under your leather pants for the concert."

            Sam looks rather amused at that.  "We can be the Chafe Brothers!"

            Mark slaps his forehead with an open palm.  "Another masochist.  I just can't win."

            "Time to come up with some new, more creative threats, Mark," Jarret says, grinning.  With a wave, he motions for Sam to accompany him out of the rehearsal room.

            With a sigh, Mark settles his guitar on its stand and heads for the door.  "You coming?" he asks Ian.  "That pizza's not going to be around much longer with Luke having a head start..."

            Ian nods, his gaze flicking to Yokaze.  "Yeah.  In a minute."

            With a shrug, Mark wanders off following Jarret and Sam.

            Yokaze finishes wiping down her bass and stands.  "What's up, Ian?  You've got that look on your face."

            "What look is that?" Ian asks, stalling.

            She gives him a wry grin.  "Reminds me of that time you had diarrhea real bad and the only toilet within a city block was a dilapidated Port-A-Potty from the twenty-first century..."

            Ian sighs deeply.  She isn't making this easy for him.  "Look, Yokaze..."

            "Yeah?"

            "About what we talked about before..."

            She waits.  And then when no further information is forthcoming promtps, "Yeah?"

            Ian takes a step closer to her and then another until he's just inside her personal space.  She looks up at him, making no move to back away.

            Very quietly, Ian says, "I need to ask you a really important question..."

**.**

            **Trowa doesn't bother** to try to explain his presence to building security.  He simply avoids them.  But the delay he's experiencing at locating Yokaze isn't allowing him to enjoy that small victory.  He turns down another hall and spies an open door a few yards ahead.  As he approaches, a masculine voice becomes audible.

            "...the hell can you eat like that?"

            "Like what?" a muffled voice returns.

            A new voice says flatly, "That's disgusting, Luke."

            The first comments, "Dude, I didn't know you could fit that much food in the human mouth."

            Luke cackles evilly. "You should see my deep throat."

            A small snapping sound echoes in the resulting silence.  Someone sighs.  "God dammit, I need another spork."

            Trowa slows as he nears the doorway and peers into the room.  Four of the six NW members lounge about eating pizza without the protective netting of a plate beneath it.  All except Mark who is attempting to saw his pizza into bite sized pieces with a pair of white, plastic sporks.

            Mark continues without looking at Luke, "You know, for a guy who's so concerned with appearances you—"

            Trowa shifts on the threshold and one by one every pair of eyes looks up.  Even Luke's.  Trowa has to admit he's quite the sight bent over the table with half a rolled-up slice of pizza handing out of his mouth.

            Trowa arcs a brow at him.  _Deep throat, indeed._

            "Hey, Tro," Jarret greets, setting down his can of legal stimulant.  "What's happening, man?"

            "Yokaze?" he asks simply.

            Jarret nods to the right indicating Trowa should continue his search further down the hall.  "Fourth door on the left."

            "Thanks."

            "Hey, tell her and Ian to get their asses in here soon if they want to eat today!" Jarret calls after him.

            Trowa frowns slightly at the information.  She's not alone.  Yet another obstacle.  He would like to stop and think this whole situation through more carefully.  He would like to be a little more sure of what these emotions are he's feeling.  But he can't.  In less than forty-eight hours she'll be planet-side.  For ten months.

            He jogs the short distance to the room Jarret had directed him to and slows to walk as he approaches the door.  He can hear Ian's low, rumbling voice as he approaches.  The door is slightly ajar and he reaches out to push it open when the man's words finally register.

            "... you marry me?"

            Door now open, Trowa stares at the scene before him.  Ian kneels before Yokaze, gently cradling her hand.  And Yokaze...  Trowa's questions die, unvoiced, in his throat as the most radiant smile lights her features.

            Silently, he slides back into the hall.  Mind numb with shock, Trowa instinctively seeks the shadows... but finds none.  So he keeps on walking.  Later, he can't recall how he got out of that building with no one seeing him.  He supposes his training is responsible for that.

            And, a heartbeat later, when he vividly recalls Yokaze's joy at Ian's proposal he supposes his ignorance is responsible for _that._

**.**

**~End of Chapter 4~**

**.**

**Author's Note:**  The song in this chapter is actually my own original stuff.  So, yeah, my lyrics.  Go me.


	5. Chapter 5: Another Promise

**Roommates**

**Chapter 5: Another Promise**

**.**

**            _"Cheese is your friend."_**

            Trowa smiles.  "That's not cheese."

            _"Sure it is.  It's just in a can.  And in paste form."_

            "Name one cheese that naturally occurs in paste form."

            _"Feta.__  Ricotta.  Cottage..."_

            He sighs.

            _"Hah!  Here, try a smiley."_

            He stares down at the round wheat cracker being shoved into his hand.  On its surface, lines of artificially colored and flavored "cheese product" depict two laughing eyes and a widely grinning mouth.

            _"Oh, wait.  Here..."_

            And then, abruptly, a large dollop graces the center of the "face."  He chuckles.  It's a clown nose.  "You're rather talented with that."

            _"Aren't I, though?"_

            He stares down at the cracker in his palm for a minute.

            _"Hey, where are your sexy duds?  You're still going to the concert tonight aren't you?"_

            He doesn't reply immediately.  He'd been hoping she wouldn't ask.  He'd considered catching an early flight back home but he knows what's waiting there for him: an empty apartment filled with reminders of his roommate.  Soon to be _ex-_roommate.

            Trowa says, "Of course."

            _"Cool."_

            He looks up from the brown and orange smiley face in his grasp and studies her as she leans one hip against the counter and proceeds to draw a Christmas tree on another cracker.

            "Yokaze..."

            _"Yeah?"_

            Very quietly, in a carefully neutral voice, he asks, "Is there... anything you need to tell me before... before you go?"

            _"Uhm...  I'll miss wrestling you for the last coconut macaroon?"_

            Trowa takes a deep breath and opens his eyes.  He absorbs the sight of the shadowed kitchen where he'd had his last conversation with Yokaze that afternoon.  There's no one here now, just him and the shadows.  Slowly, he lowers his empty hand to his side; her offering of dubious nutritional value disappearing with the rest of the memory.

            He steps closer to the counter and runs a hand over the spot where she'd leaned her jean-clad hip against it.  The surface is cool to the touch; it's no more adept at holding onto her essence than Trowa had been.  His eyelids lower once again and he imagines he can hear her voice.

            _"Well, I've got to go."_

            He nods.

            _"There's going to be a small party backstage afterwards.  I've already told the security guys to let you by..."_

            "Thanks," he says, knowing that he won't take her up on the offer.

            _"Okay...  Wish me luck."_

            Trowa has to swallow and take a deep breath before he can grant her request.  "Luck," he breathes.

            With a heavy sigh, Trowa leans against the counter, one arm wrapped around his stomach and the other had sliding over his eyes.  The stiffness seeps out of his shoulders and he stands there, in the dark kitchen, defeated.

            _I didn't tell her..._

            But what good would it have done now?

            "Trowa!  Everyone's here!  Are you ready to go?"

            He straightens from his slouch and drops his hands just as Quatre peeks into the room.  "Trowa?  Are you all right?"

            He nods.  "Fine.  Just getting a glass of water."

            Quatre steps aside as his friend shoulders past him and into the somewhat crowded living room.  Still hovering in the doorway, Quatre glances to the sink.  The empty sink.  There's no glass in sight.  With a frown, he retreats back down the hall and hopes that the concert will manage to pull Trowa from the strange mood that's settled over him.

**.**

            **"You look to the sky..."**

            Trowa stands, arms crossed over his chest, and studies the woman on the stage.  He watches as her eyes slide closed.  Her tongue darts out to lick her lips and she brings the microphone close again.  She cradles it as she might balance a glass of wine between her middle and ring fingers.

            "You sink down into the sand..."

            Her husky voice resonates over the enthusiastic crowd.  The spotlight reflects perfectly off of her face as she feels the music, gives it life with every hitch of her breath and motion of her brows.

            "You fall into a sigh as the day..."

            Her entire body is drawn tight as the words fight to be released from her lungs and throat.  Every pair of eyes in the hall is riveted to her form as she transforms the lyrics into a subtle dance.

            "...just slips away."

A pause marks the end of the chorus and, softly, the music begins again, begins to build once more toward the next intense moment of emotion.  But for now, everything is soft again.  Whispered.  The audience holds its collective breath.

            "A glance in the tides..."

            Even though Yokaze has relaxed, curling around the microphone in her hands as if sheltering a fragile flower from a roaring wind.

            "A whisper on your skin..."

            A deep breath then an aching voice as she unleashes just a taste of the passion to come.

            "Can you feel the night begin?"

            Trowa can feel his pulse quicken in response to the illusion of freedom she invokes with those words.

            "Lovely black star shine..."

            He almost closes his eyes to savor the images rolling off of her tongue.

            "Falls from your immortal eyes..."

            Her entire body fairly shivers in the heat of the white light as the music pulls her tighter into its passionate embrace.

            "Can you heed the dream within?"

            The music swells in the closed auditorium as the chorus approaches for the last time.

            "You ascend to the sky..."

            She's a vision when she looses herself in the melody, he decides.

            "You tumble among the sand..."

            And the ache of knowing he must watch her walk away makes him wish he could just close his eyes and shut out the memory of her.  But he can't.

            "You exhale one last time... and then..."

            Silence.  Resonating silence.  A beat.  Two.  Three.

            Unassisted by the other band members, Yokaze breathes, "Slip away..."

            She lowers the microphone and opens her eyes as the thunderous applause begins.  A corner of her mouth lifts and she waves in recognition of the praise.  She's a contradiction: at home in the spotlight pouring her soul out into the sea of strangers, yet embarrassed by the roaring welcome her talents receive.

            A moment more passes before she holds up one hand.  "Tonight," she begins, her voice never rising far from the monotone she's known so well for, "tonight, is a moment of beginnings."  The audience tunes into her words, absorbing the sound of every syllable.  "Beginnings are powerful things.  A single moment of inspiration and then..."  She waves her hand over the audience to encompass both them and the universe beyond.  "...and so, here we are.  As mere mortals we can only honor the miracle of beginnings by creating more amongst ourselves."  Yokaze smiles and holds out her hand to where Trowa stands with Quatre and a few other close friends of NW just off stage.  "Zoe," she whispers, "come into the light."

            Beside Trowa, a young woman jumps slightly, eyes wide.  She glances around as if there must be another Zoe Yokaze is beckoning onto the stage.  Ever patient, Yokaze waves her hand in a graceful invitation and waits.  Reluctantly—as if she expects to be chastised by security—she approaches the band.

            With every pair of eyes studying Yokaze, poised in the brilliant white light, no one notices as Ian quietly sets his guitar aside and skirts the shadows.  And then he's stepping past Yokaze and claiming center stage.  She passes the mic to him as she retreats to stand beside Jarret.

            Zoe is shaking with anticipation and anxiety.  Ian holds out his hand to her and gently pulls her close.  The confusion and questions in her eyes are obvious, but before she can say anything, Ian lifts the microphone to his lips and tells her, "I stopped wishing on stars when I was about eight years old."

            The audience is perfectly silent, wondering where this display is leading.

            "I stopped not because I didn't believe in them anymore but because I wasn't sure how to ask for what I wanted.  But what does anyone want when they wish on a star?  A miracle."  He pauses.  "You are my miracle."

            Still holding her hand, Ian sinks down onto one knee.  A collective gasp of delight rolls through the hall.

            "Zoe," Ian softly requests, "will you marry me?"

            Trowa's eyes widen as he watches the young woman nod her head vigorously in reply.  Ignoring the thunderous applause, he quickly scans the stage for Yokaze and stares at the completely content smile tugging at her lips.  For one long, eternal, breathless moment, he doesn't understand.

            And then he _does._

            Yokaze isn't engaged to Ian.

            His heart pounds slow and hard in his chest as he finally drags in a breath of air.

            Yokaze isn't engaged to Ian.

            Trowa attempts to rationalize.  What had he seen yesterday at the concert hall?  What had that been if not a proposal?

            His mind helpfully provides him with a possibility: _a rehearsal._  Ian had _practiced_ his proposal on Yokaze...

            He watches as Yokaze unobtrusively collects the microphone from Ian and, still smiling, lifts it to her lips.  Ian regains his feet and holds his other hand out for Zoe to take.  And when she does he pulls her close.  A moment later, Yokaze's husky voice tumbles forth.

            "I can't tell you I love you... the words are too easy to say..."

            Trowa watches her as the newly betrothed dance smoothly in the spotlight.

            "I can't give you my heart... I've already thrown it away..."

            Ian and Zoe seem to be illuminated from within as they gaze into each other's eyes.

            "I can't offer my soul... I sold to you for a smile..."

            Trowa reluctantly turns his gaze back to Yokaze and freezes when he finds himself trapped in her dark stare.

            "I can't die for you... my breath has been still for a while... and I know..."

            He can't turn away.  He doesn't want to turn away.  She's looking at him like...

            "It should hurt... it should bleed... it should scar... it should sear... it should blister... I should feel my mind falling apart..."

            She's looking at him like...

            "But I'm here... with you... and it's... beautiful..."

            An ache explodes in his chest and it feels as if his sternum has cracked open.  His blood is rushing just beneath his skin, tickling his wrists and stomach.

            "And I reach... for the pain... but it simply dances away..."

            Yokaze takes a shuddering breath and pours herself into the music and into the young man she's roomed with and watched over and cared for and trusted for years.

            Softly, she sings.  She wonders, "What have you done to me?"

**.**

            **Yokaze pulls off** her costume with a grateful sigh then dons the more familiar tank top and jogging shorts.  It had been a long night.  And she knows that this is only the first of ten months' worth of long nights.  She pauses in folding up her discarded clothing and sinks down onto the bed.  Plus, it would have been nice to know she had something... _someone_... to come back to, but she hadn't seen Trowa at the after-concert party.

            She shakes her head and doesn't bother to dwell on it.  Yokaze is well aware that she doesn't know what he's thinking after that little performance of hers.  And especially recently he's become even more difficult to read and predict.  And then there's the odd tension between them...

            She leans her forehead into her hands.  Maybe a nice, long break will do both of them some good...

            A soft tap on the door mercifully distracts her.  She grins wryly, imagining that Mark has finally managed to worm his way out of babysitting Luke and has come to complain about the sheer quantity of alcohol the drummer can put away.  Yokaze hopes the others were successful in keeping him from getting too wasted.  No one wants to have barf bag duty on a shuttle tomorrow.

            "Come in.  I'm decent," she calls.

            She stuffs her outfit into her bag and shoves it between the bed and nightstand.  She'll finish packing in the morning, as is her habit.  That accomplished, Yokaze turns back to the now open door.

            She blinks and then frowns.  "Trowa?"

            "May I come in?"

            "Of course."

            She watches as he quietly shuts the door behind him and approaches the bed.  She doesn't say anything as he sits down next to her and rests his elbows on his knees.  For a change, the silence that follows is neither awkward nor crackling with tension.  Both of them are far too exhausted to work up the energy for either of those effects.

            Trowa draws in a breath and slowly releases it.  Eventually he says, "Good show tonight."

            "Thanks."

            Pause.

            Yokaze continues, "I know you hadn't really been planning on going."

            He looks up at her.  "I'm sorry," he says.

            She shrugs.  "No worries."  Yokaze offers him a tentative smile.  "I appreciated you being there."

            "I'm glad I went."  He stares at the floor for a moment before hearing himself blurt, "Do you realize you sing to me?"

            Yokaze pauses for a moment, digesting his words.  She releases a long breath and admits, "Yeah.  Yeah, I do."

            "Why?"

            She runs a hand through her hair.  "Because I don't know how to say what I mean when we're just sitting here like this."

            He frowns.  In all his memory, Yokaze has never had trouble with finding the right words to express herself.  She must sense his quiet disagreement because she elaborates, "Emotions are for feeling, not... not labeling with words and clichés."

            "Things have been changing between us," he comments.

            She nods.  "I've noticed."

            "What should we do about it?"

            "What do you want to do about it?"

            Trowa considers her words.  "I'm... not sure."

            Yokaze accepts that.  "Okay."

            He hesitates for a moment before asking, "What... what do you want?"

            She sighs and meets his gaze with her own.  "Just you.  In whatever capacity you're comfortable with."

            His eyebrows arc.  "You're leaving the decision up to me?"

            "Sounds that way, doesn't it?"  She doesn't look overly thrilled by that observation but she doesn't offer to revise her position, either.  "Shall we just see how we feel when I get back from this tour?"

            Slowly, Trowa nods.

            Yokaze looks relieved.  "Shall I give you a call when I've got the chance?"

            He gives her a small but sincere smile.  "Of course."

            She smiles back.  "We'll sort this out when I get back," she promises.

            Sensing the end of their discussion, Trowa glances at the clock and comments, "It's late."

            She nods.

            He stands.

            "Hey, Tro?"

            He turns.

            "It seems kind of weird knowing we're not sleeping next door to each other, doesn't it?"

            Trowa's mouth curves upward a fraction.  "Yeah.  I can't get used to it."

            Her expression melts into mild amusement.  "Then why try?" she asks as she reaches behind her a grasps one of the bed's pillows.  Trowa stares at her as she holds it out to him.  "It's a big bed," she says.

            "Are you asking me to stay the night?" he inquires, looking from her to the pillow and back again.

            "If you think we'll have a better chance at getting some quality rest," she replies.

            His eyes narrow at her comment.  Apparently he isn't the only one who has trouble sleeping when Yokaze's away.  Trowa reaches out and accepts the pillow with an almost-smile.  "It's worth a shot."

            Yokaze grins.

            They settle in for the night, starting out side-by-side on their backs.  But sometime much later Trowa opens his eyes when he hears the sounds of a few people staggering down the hall to their own rooms.  Lying on his side, he notices a weight across his waist.  Looking down, he sees Yokaze's hand dangling beside his stomach.  He suddenly feels the heat of her body leaning along his back, the soft puff of her breath between his shoulder blades.

            Smiling, Trowa laces his fingers with hers and closes his eyes again.  Much later, when Yokaze is on the road with the band and Trowa is living alone in their apartment, they both look back on this night and recall the best sleep either of them have had in a very, _very_ long time.

**.**           

**The End**

**.**

**Author's Note:** Well, that's how Trowa and Yokaze started out.  The lyrics in this chapter are also my original stuff.  And, you might be asking, why didn't I just barrow some lyrics from existing songs for the concert?  Well, I felt that NW deserved their own voice.  So there you have it.  I've started on _Night Wind_ and I'm rather pleased with it so far.  Although I'm changing my formatting a bit and dividing the story into three large _"Parts"_ rather than twenty or so "Chapters."  So keep checking back and, if you have a moment, leave a comment or two on my review page.  Thanks, folks!


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